Remembering Against
by thedorkygirl
Summary: A ghost from Spike's past comes to haunt him while he tries to forget Buffy. Nobody, however, is more surprised than he when his thoughts take on more solid forms. GIVEN UP.


Remembering Against

**Author:**  
Keren Ziv  
**Summary:**  
A ghost from Spike's past comes to haunt him while he tries to forget Buffy. Nobody, however, is more surprised than he when his thoughts take on more solid forms. (short)  
**Rating:**  
PG   
**SPOILERS:**  
As You Were (the Riley-ep)   
**AN:**  
This is un-beta'd, as I wanted to get it out. Sorry.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em, Joss does, and various other people. I'm just a poor high school freshman who go hooked on FX reruns of Buffy. Forgive.

Tearfall. It's like rainfall, only more painful. You can close your eyes and pray to whatever deity is watching at the moment that you won't cry . . . and you'll be ignored. Suddenly there is a dampness from your eyes, on your cheeks, and your heart feels flattened, as if the world had rested on it for a moment. Funny thing about a resting world: no matter how brief the visit, you still have a broken heart.

Spike found himself reaching up and brushing tears from his eyes; from his cheekbones; from the area above his upper lip. He didn't know how long ago Buffy had left, but he was achingly aware of her absence and had been the moment she had begun speaking.

He couldn't remember a word she had said. He knew, of course, what all the words had added up to, what they had meant, but if he had been asked to quote her he would not have been able to utter a single phrase she had spoken. Well, maybe one. It couldn't exactly compete, but when he weighed it down he realized that, yes, he could repeat one word.

"William," he whispered, bringing his hand down from his face. Then, louder, he spoke again. "William." He laughed mirthlessly; it was a subtle way to wound him, even if it was a soft recognition of his love. William; with a soul; with, in her mind, the ability to love.

He remembered love in his human form: it had been ridiculous infatuations which he had been overly zealous in. In his rush to find love, he had followed beauty blindly. Elsbeth had told him, already a philosopher at twelve, "You have the ability to love greatly, but it will hurt you so much that it pains me to see."

Els. He hadn't thought of her in years. When was the last time he had actually whispered her name in his mind? It was when he was human, long before he was turned by Dru. Far too long ago, Spike thought ruefully. He'd been crying then, too, the last time he'd thought of her

**Countryside Outside of London  
1876**

They met when she was a thin, frail three-year-old with dark red hair and a fiery temper and he was six, in his immaculate suit that his mother poured him in and with a missing tooth. Her smart frock did not discouraged her from playing a hiding game with the Winters children ranging in age from a newly-bought infant and to small to play to twelve-years-old and too big to play and others at the church picnic being held.

Little Will Winters, so called because his father was Will Winters, pushed Elsbeth Spencer in the mud and said she wasn't playing fairly. Immediately after getting up, Elsbeth pushed Little Will down. Mrs. Spencer was shocked to her very toes that her darling girl had been hurt; Mrs. Winters was embarrassed and angry that Little Will had struck a younger child; Mr. Spencer home on a rare occasion and Winters laughed and said Elsbeth and Will wouldn't have any trouble after this. They were right; the two children were inseparable afterwards.

Wills, as she called him, took Els, as he in turn called her, down behind her house to the places in the gardens where she had never had the courage to explore before. She wasn't allowed to go far or for long, they were told, because Miss Els had a cough and she mustn't get damp or overexert herself.

Els pushed Wills until he asked the main Jane what these words meant. Els then pushed Wills until he asked why wet and tired wouldn't do just as well. Jane hadn't any answer to their query and sent them off with a cookie each to avoid answering any more questions.

On Els's sixth birthday, she was allowed a small party, organized by Mrs. Spencer mainly as a way to invite young girls into the house to perhaps get a chance to know her Elsbeth . . . and perhaps as a way to exclude that rough Winters boy from her darling daughter. Mrs. Spencer wasn't quite certain, but she was certain that many of the mischief that had been occurring around the neighborhood lately had been whispered to be the product of Els-and-Wills.

So on Elsbeth's sixth birthday, Wills arrived at a party dominated by girls and younger male cousins with a large afghan he'd knitted himself. When it was too damp to go out and play, Wills often stayed inside and amused himself with Els and her housework. It was to the great distaste of Mrs. Spencer that Little Will could knit a good deal better than her Elsbeth. Mrs. Winters, it was rumored, thought it hilarious.

The dark red afghan was not the only present Wills presented Els, though Mrs. Spencer didn't know it at the time. Away from the crush of the guests "I'm not one for crowds," he told her he presented her a . . .

"Pocketknife," Els gasped. "Oh, Mother will die!" Impulsively, she grabbed him and hugged him tightly around the middle. She let go after a brief moment, giggling wildly. "Now when we play Robinson Crusoe or Treasure Island I will have my own knife, and not just a twig one." She opened the small blade almost reverently.

"Father told me not to let anyone know that I'd given it to you, and if we were caught to not let anyone know he'd helped me get it for you," Wills said, grinning impishly. Mr. Winters thought his oldest son's temperament was best used to catch and keep the heart of the ailing, but undoubtfully heiress, Elsbeth Spencer and if that meant getting Red a small pocketknife so that Little Will could keep her attention, well then a small pocketknife was ordered. Little Will and Red had no idea, of course, of his thoughts.

Soon after Els became quite deft at throwing her little knife and hitting much to the half disgust-amusement of Wills frogs and the occasional small bird. Tauntingly, she would prick her fingers with the blade and draw on her face lines to represent the savages that called themselves Americans. Wills would imitate, rather reluctantly, and speak with the swagger that their mothers would wince at.

When Wills was eleven, he came rushing in the kitchen entrance to the Spencer home with a thin fist full of gum knots, taken under the strict order not to from trees. Red-faced from his run, he bounded across the family dog and grinned . . . at Elsbeth and an older girl, having an early tea.

"Excuse me," Wills said, surprised. He raised an eyebrow at Elsbeth and she shrugged at him miserably. She was wrapped thickly in blankets and the afghan he had given her two years earlier. "I'm Little Will Winters and you'll be?"

"Annelise Buschman," the older girl said with a heavy accent. She smiled at Wills, showing even white teeth. Slightly behind her, Els was free to make a face and grin at Wills with her own crooked teeth. "I am a visiting cousin of Elsbeth's. My parents are recently deceased and I have come to live with my mother's brother's family." Each word was carefully chosen.

"Uh, right. So, I, uh, got some gum for Els. You can have my share, I guess. Not like I can't get more." Wills thrust the handful at Elsbeth and backed up, feeling like a cornered animal. This girl had Elsbeth's red hair, though not quite as dark as Els, but she wasn't as freely speaking.

"How . . . delightful. You have a name for Elsbeth that is unique." From the look on her face, Wills could see that Els had as little idea what you-neek was as he did. That did make him feel better.

"Yes, well . . . " Wills glanced at Elsbeth's terrified face and waving hands. "I'd best be going." He scampered quickly out of the kitchen, not even pausing long enough to than Jane for the cookie she handed him as he left.

Even as quickly as he made his departure, he could not help but hear Annelise say to Els, "You have a beau?" Nor could he miss Elsbeth's indignant unladylike, as her mother would say shriek of no. Wills himself let out a groan and he raced home across the meadows.

**Spike's Crypt  
Present Day**

Spike shook himself out of his memories and smiled ruefully to himself. Sometime while he walked down memory lane, his tears had dried and his heart had stopped its odd dance. Those had been some of the happiest times of his childhood, his friendship with Els . . . and, later, oddly enough, Leec.

Looking around his crypt not with his forlorn attitude washed away, he tried to remember how it had looked before. Always optimistic, he could see in his mind's eye how to improve the damage and make it just as good as new and better . . . thought it would take some time and patience from him.

It would give him a chance to make certain that his mind stayed on his task and away from the women in his life.


End file.
